My Cheating Elf Girlfriend Collection 2:

The Cuckold Comes Second Collection

(Books 12-16) Amanda Clover & Jay
Aury
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/my-cheating-elf-girlfriend-collection-2-the-cuckold-co
mes-second-collection-books-12-16-amanda-clover-jay-aury/
The Cuckold Comes Second Collection
(Books 12-16)
By Amanda Clover and Jay Aury
@amandasmut
Collection cover by Artnip
Individual cover artwork by Deilan12
This book and all its contents are copyright 2022 by Amanda Clover.
All rights are reserved and no portions may be reproduced unless for
the use of brief quotations for review purposes.

All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a
work of parody and any resemblance to real people or situations is
coincidental.
 Foreword

Thank you for reading My Cheating Elf Girlfriend! I hope you

are not starting with this collection, which covers books 12 through
16. The very first book or the first collection of books in the series is
the place to start to get the most enjoyment out of this series.
In this book, spanning five adventures, Caldric and Faylana
and their friends travel from the battlefield of Simona’s abbey to the
castle of Boar’s Rock. There they meet Ser Godrick Lucan, a former
associate of Caldric and Tavek.
Ser Godrick Lucan is the vilest of antagonists in this series in
terms of Caldric and Faylana’s relationship. He knows Caldric well
and uses Caldric’s secrets against him. He is wealthy and strong and
his servants will aid him in his schemes to win over Faylana.
Perhaps worst of all, Ser Godrick knows how to fuck. He pleasures
Faylana in a forceful way that is far beyond Caldric, but not so cruel
as Straka. His partial transformations into a boar monster make
some of his scenes kinky and intense and I think it’s clear Faylana
particularly enjoys this side of him.
Having Godrick’s maid Veera always scheming in the
background adds another layer to the sinister pleasures of this arc.
Her attempts to corrupt Faylana and her cruel manipulations of
Caldric, Borto, and others make her a character every bit as evil as
Ser Godrick or Straka. I decided to include Amonothus from the
Princess to Pleasure Slave series as Veera’s patron goddess. If I am
ever able to complete my giant interactive Princess to Pleasure
Slave novel, you will find a lot more Amonothus.
But this series is not about Amonothus or Ser Godrick or
even Straka. It ultimately comes down to the relationship between
Faylana and Caldric. The heat of her infidelity and the pains and
pleasures Caldric endures to remain tied to her. Of course, there is a
third member to this relationship introduced in this arc: Cally.
Caldric’s feminine alter ego is more forceful and self-assured that
Caldric, but her wild side can get him into big trouble. I particularly
enjoyed contrasting Cally’s high spirits with Caldric’s almost pathetic
decline, taking him to the brink but giving him a chance to redeem
himself.
When it came time to plan out the collections for My Cheating
Elf Girlfriend, it was natural to divide this shorter collection from the
first and third collections based on its darker content. While dark
things certainly happen before and after this series, Faylana’s time
with the boorish (and boarish) Ser Godrick are the closest she has
come to abandoning Caldric entirely. Add to this the very bloody final
chapter of this arc and I wanted to see it separate from what will
ultimately become the third collection.
I had a lot of fun writing four alternate endings in which I was
able to take Faylana to some darker places she would never go in
the normal series. Now you know where I am might have gone with
the narrative if things had not worked out quite the same. I have no
plans to create a total omnibus collecting all three collections, so
enjoy the filthy action here in this book!
Thank you again for your support and for reading my work!
XOXOXO,
Amanda Clover
2022
 Index
The Cuckold Comes Second Collection (Books 12-16)
Foreword
Book Twelve: Pursued by the Noble Pig
Book Twelve Pin-Up
Book Thirteen: The Beast and the Maiden
Book Thirteen Pin-Up
Book Fourteen: The Heat of Her Pleasure
Book Fourteen Pin-Up
Book Fifteen: The Orc and His Rival
Book Fifteen Pin-Up
Book Sixteen: Festival of the Unhallowed
Book Sixteen Pin-Up
Collection Two Pin-Up
Alternate Ending One: Whore for the Horseguard (Book
Twelve)
Alternate Ending Two: Bride of the Boar (Book Thirteen)
Alternate Ending Three: No Turning Back (Book Fifteen)
Alternate Ending Four: The Elder Goddess Reborn (Book
Sixteen)
 BOOK TWELVE
Pursued by the Noble Pig
By Amanda Clover and Jay Aury
@amandasmut
Cover artwork by Deilan12
 Arrival

The lulling motion of the wagon was occasionally interrupted

by a jolt as it rolled over loose cobblestones. Each time, Caldric was
startled awake with a spasm of pain as his wounds threatened to
reopen.
“Fucking Bramsch,” he groaned, remembering why he was in
a wagon and where he was going.
There was no star marking Bramsch on any map Caldric had
ever seen. It was a small, muddy, ugly town that had sprouted out of
a camp meant to provide whores and provisions for the troops at the
fortress at Boar’s Rock. The fortress was no longer critical to the
defense of Tarol. The garrison had dwindled and the fortunes of the
village had waned.
Bramsch had not been much of a home for Caldric when he
was younger. More like a waystation that he’d become stuck in for
longer than he liked. He wasn’t glad to be returning there, particularly
as a guest of that fat bully, Ser Godrick Lucan. Master of Boar’s
Rock.
But Caldric and his companions owed their lives to Ser
Godrick. He and Tavek had saved them from certain defeat at the
hands of the Plague Lord and his ratkin. It would have been rude to
refuse his invitation to recover from their wounds at the castle of
Boar’s Rock.
“Are you awake?” asked a soft voice beside Caldric.
He turned his head on the sack of rice he was using as a
pillow. The movement sent another pulse of pain through his
stomach. He was mending, yes, but the pain was still incredible at
times. The filthy ratkin weapon had inflamed his body. He only
healed in the face of infection thanks to the milk of the healer, Momo
Unahara, a Sister of the White and devotee of Lasha the Healer.
 “Sister?” croaked Caldric, wetting his lips as the figure leaned
closer to him.
“No, it is me, my love,” said Faylana, her golden hair catching
a hint of moonlight and her sympathetic expression tugging at his
heart. She caressed his shoulder and leaned her head down to his,
pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“I thought you were riding in the carriage with Ser Godrick,”
said Caldric, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone.
“I have been in the wagon for most of the journey,” she
whispered, kissing his head again and scooting her body against his
in the jostling wagon. “Ser Godrick understood I could not keep him
company with my husband lying wounded in the wagon. He is a very
interesting man. A martial man. I think he wants to be the King of
Tarol someday from the way he speaks. He says he knows you well,
my love. That he has many stories he could tell me.”
“No doubt he would like to,” growled Caldric. He saw in the
sliver of moonlight that Faylana’s sympathetic brow and loving smile
did not falter. He felt a pang of guilt for suspecting her with Ser
Godrick. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her
fingers. Moving his arm took much of his strength and he sagged
back against the cushion of the sack of rice.
“Rest,” whispered Faylana. “Let me change your bandage.
Sister Momo showed me the way.”
For a time, he was quiet. Chewing on his pain and trying not
to pass out from it as Faylana removed his bloody bandage and
replaced it with a fresh dressing. Faylana was not as skilled at
changing the bandage and her fingers prodded him painfully more
than once.
“It is healing,” said Faylana, a bit pale. Her smile forced.
“Shall I fetch the sister? She could nurse you with some of her milk.”
His mouth watered and his cock stirred at the thought. No, he
told himself, he would not send Faylana away so that he could
suckle from the warm breast of the raven-haired healer. He grasped
Faylana’s hand again. Held it tightly against his chest.
“You,” he croaked. “You are all the nurse I need, Faylana.”
“Mmmmmmmm, I wish I had milk to give you,” she said,
leaning her breasts against his shoulder. “Perhaps it will come with
the child.”
Slightly delirious, it took Caldric a moment to remember.
Straka. The Estrea powder the orc had given to Faylana to induce
her fertility. The way she had crooned for his seed, knowing full well
what it meant. Caldric’s cock twitched again. And he had not just
allowed it, Caldric had let Faylana pleasure his cock while Straka
took her from behind. Had almost certainly bred her.
“Oh,” purred Faylana, running her hand over the bulge in
Caldric’s lap. “Have you been thinking of something, my love? Your
cock stirs.”
“Straka,” he admitted.
“Yes, he was an incredible lover,” she smiled, her blue eyes
seeming to stare off into the recent past. “His cock was so very
large, my love. Much bigger than yours.”
“Was it?” Caldric lifted his head to watch her fingers gliding
over the bulge in his trousers.
“Oh, indeed,” she whispered, pressing her lips to Caldric’s
ear as her fingers began to unwind the laces over his cock. “A pillar
of orc flesh that reached into my womb. Huge stones laden with his
seed. Driven by an insatiable lust, my love. He would have me again
and again as he pleased. There was nothing I could do to stop him
until he was finished with me.”
“But you tried to stop him?” gasped Caldric, watching
Faylana’s nimble fingers as they reached around the thick shaft of
his cock and drew his manhood out into the open.
“Oh, no, Caldric,” she giggled. “Stop him? I was begging for
it. For his huge cock to stretch my tight quim. To batter his stones
against my clit as he pulled my hair and arched my back.”
Faylana’s hand worked steadily up and down the length of
Caldric’s cock as she spoke to him in husky tones that seemed to
recall her desire. Anger, jealousy, and lust focused within the
warrior’s twitching cock. His mind flashed to Straka’s betrayal. The
half-orc had fled in the heat of battle and yet he had already
defeated Caldric when it came to Faylana.
“Would you have him again if you saw him?” asked Caldric.
“Mmmmmmm, I would,” purred Faylana, her eyelids
fluttering. “I would part my thighs for him and spread the petals of my
cunt. To show him I am still eager for his cock. For more… ohhhh,
Caldric… you’re getting very wet.”
It was true, his precum was drenching his cock and making
her fingers quite slippery. She stroked him a few more times and
then held his glistening fingers up in the moonlight. He sucked in a
breath as cool air blew across the damp head of his cock. The
sudden inhalation pinched in his wound and he groaned with pain.
“Oh, my love, I am sorry,” said Faylana. “You will always be
my love. I do not mean I would trade you for Straka. It’s just… your
cock… it is nice, my love, but Straka’s…”
“Say it,” whispered Caldric.
“You really wish to hear the truth?” She laughed softly and
pressed her lips to Caldric’s. Her hand returned to his cock, stroking
him more intently. Pumping her grasping fingers up and down his
hardness. Over his aching cockhead. Down his slicked shaft to his
bollocks.
“Yesss,” hissed Caldric against her lips. “Tell me the truth.”
“It wasn’t just bigger, Caldric,” she laughed, pumping her
hand faster on his cock. “It was better. It drove me wild with
pleasure. And he knew how to use it so very well.”
“Ohhhhh,” moaned Caldric, his stones clenching tight against
his root. His cock straining in her stroking grasp. “Did he… did he
satisfy you better?”
“My love, he made me cum like you never have,” purred
Faylana. “Again and again on his huge orc cock. Again and again as
he pumped me full of his hot orc seed. As he bred me, my love. As
he claimed my body with his cum.”
“Ohhhhhh!” despairing, enthralled, and lost in ecstasy,
Caldric thrust his cock through Faylana’s stroking fingers and
exploded. Hot ropes of his seed spurted into the air and splashed
over Faylana’s arm, over her fingers, and poured down Caldric’s
bollocks and into his trousers. Faylana kissed him as she milked his
cock to the last spasm.
“Sleep well, my love,” she whispered, tucking his filthy cock
into his cum-filled trousers. She gave his manhood a pat. “We will
arrive soon at the castle.”
She began to leave Caldric’s seed. He shot out a hand and
caught her wrist, pulling her against him.
“Promise me, Faylana,” he whispered. “Promise me you will
beware of Ser Godrick.”
“Beware of him?” asked Faylana, her eyes wide and innocent
in the silvery moonlight.
“He may seem like a gentleman, but he is a blackguard,” said
Caldric. “He will seduce you and break your heart. Promise me you
will not visit his bed.”
“Oh, my love, of course,” said Faylana. “I had no idea you
despised him so. He is kind to me. But I have dealt with bad men
before. I will not fall prey to his charm. I promise you that I will not
visit his bed.”
She embraced him and kissed him. For the moment, Caldric
was reassured. He began to drift off to sleep. The thought occurred
to him that he had not sought any promise from Faylana about
visiting the beds of men other than Ser Godrick. If anything, by
singling one man out and asking for a promise he was encouraging
her to bed down with other men. Nor had he stipulated “visit his bed”
meant more than just Ser Godrick’s literal bed. She might fuck him in
his carriage or in a meadow. She might suck his cock in his bathtub.
An uneasy knot formed in Caldric’s stomach, in some ways
more unpleasant than the wound caused by being impaled.
Somehow, he managed to sleep despite all the pain in his guts.
The long train of carriages, wagons, and mounted warriors
journeyed into the valley of the river Wert, into the shade of the
Garovingian Mountains, misty and half-hidden in the early morning.
Dawn broke as they passed the creaking of a water wheel at a lonely
millhouse. Caldric awoke and pushed himself up against the wall of
the wagon. An old woman stood in the door of the millhouse,
watching wearily as the long line marched past the sagging timbers
and moldy cob of her home.
The train left the valley and climbed into the foothills. Boar’s
Rock became visible through the mists. A jutting black rock formation
that resembled the face and snout of a wild boar. Atop the rock,
seemingly as ancient and built from the same black rock, was the
castle of the same name. Small, but famously impregnable with its
high walls and sheer crevasse used in place of a moat.
The carriages and wagons entered Bramsch, visible at first
by faint glowing lamplights, then by the tombstone grimness of its
buildings. Windows shuttered. Gutters gurgling with recent rain.
Roofs green with moss. Stones stained and wood half-rotten. Only
as they passed through the village’s center did any of it come to life.
A few early tradesmen setting to work, their shop doors open. The
early morning whores rising to call out from the balconies of the
village’s handful of remaining brothels. Among them, the Pink Tulip
was the finest, with the prettiest girls and a fresh coat of pink paint
on its walls.
Caldric watched the women leaning on the railings. Calling
out to the soldiers and even Ser Godrick specifically. He imagined
Godrick shamelessly waving to them from his carriage. A knight
known less for his deeds than his drinking and cavorting with
whores.
 The caravan passed through the village, up the mountain to
Boar’s Rock, where the drawbridge was lowered. The victorious
company passed through the barbican. A skeletal body was
shackled to the wall. It was a reminder that Ser Godrick was the law
in Bramsch and his justice could be just as brutal as his father’s had
been. The red boar’s head banners of House Lucan hung over the
battlements and stirred in the morning breeze.
Then the wagon passed beneath the barbican and into the
castle and Caldric felt those walls rising around him. A prison.
A trap.

Castle Luxuries

Faylana sniffed at the dust in the air of the castle

bedchamber. The room was crowded with velvet drapery and
overstuffed with heavy furniture and thick tapestries that depicted
scenes of nature and frolic. The canopy bed was hung with yet more
draperies and the smudge of soot from the fireplace added to the
general darkness. Though luxurious, this was the opposite of the sort
of room Faylana found appealing. Like a well-furnished cave
compared to an airy treehouse.
“It was my sister’s room before she married,” explained Ser
Godrick, crossing the room and throwing open the curtains. Light
broke through the chamber. Godrick opened the panes of the leaded
windows and let in some of the fresh mountain air. The cool breeze
ruffled Faylana’s tattered gown and stirred her golden hair. She
smiled with relief.
At least there was something to recommend this dreary
place.
“The bed seems a bit small,” observed Faylana.
“Hmmm? Thinking of having company?” Ser Godrick nudged
her with an elbow. “Quite large enough for one, my dear. Caldric will
of course be sleeping in the infirmary until he is well enough to join
you. Should you desire that.”
“I should desire it,” say Faylana, recalling her conversation
with Caldric in the wagon.
She understood Caldric’s apprehension. Ser Godrick Lucan
was a charming man. Exuberant and full of jokes and boisterous
good humor. He did not strike her as a particularly noble man, which
made him all the more appealing. He was clearly a man of ample
appetites, given his generous belly, but he moved with the
confidence and strength of a warrior. With his striking, coarse
features and his beard and long mane he seemed almost a wild
man. A fitting compliment to the boar banners hanging all over the
castle.
He looked her over with obvious appreciation. One big arm
around her shoulder as he walked her over to the open window. He
gestured at the Gerovingian mountains with their summery green
sides and distant snowy caps.
“There are so many things to see and do here, Faylana,” said
Ser Godrick. “I would take you riding in the mountains. Or perhaps
swimming in one of the mountain lagoons. Quite bracing! There is a
waterfall I should like to show you, my lovely, and oh… but I get
ahead of myself. There is to be a feast in the afternoon and into the
evening. To celebrate my great victory over the Plague Lord. I would
like for you to honor me by being my guest and sitting beside me at
the table.”
Faylana shrugged off Ser Godrick’s arm and turned to face
him.
“But I have nothing to wear,” she said, looking down at her
dirty clothing. “And Caldric might not like it if I sat beside you.”
“Oh, Caldric won’t mind,” said Ser Godrick. “Do not fear. I will
see that he is propped up at the table next to you, my dear. He can
chaperone our supper. Ensure that I am a complete gentleman.”
 He goosed her bottom and she let out a yelp. He laughed at
her startled reaction.
“As for the clothing, I have already planned for that,” he said.
“The baths are warm and relaxing and I have seen a chest of my
sister’s dresses brought down from the attic. Veera!”
He called out again, “Veera!”
A petite young woman with straight dark hair entered the
room dragging a huge, banded chest by one side. She grunted and
deposited the chest with a thump that raised a cloud of dust from the
floor. She smiled at Faylana and Faylana was instantly taken by the
young woman’s beauty. Veera’s skin was as clear and white as
fresh snow with a hint of blush in her cheeks and kind brown eyes
that seemed childlike in their innocence. She was quite slender, but
for the pert rise of her ample bust within her bodice.
“Milord,” she said to Godrick. She curtsied to Faylana.
“M’lady.”
“I am no lady,” said Faylana.
“All the better!” laughed Ser Godrick. He goosed Faylana
again, palming her bottom and giving it a good squeeze before
brushing past her. “I shall leave you two ladies to it. I think you will
find Veera has excellent taste and will know how to adjust any of my
sister’s dresses to fit your, ah, loveliness.”
“Th-thank you,” said Faylana, blushing at the way Godrick
had so shamelessly touched her body.
Once Ser Godrick had gone, Veera threw open the lid of the
chest to reveal a fortune in neatly stored garments sewn with jewels
and pearls. Veera took them out one-by-one and arranged them on
the bed. There was even a small cupboard within the chest which
contained matching jewelry, hosiery, and lingerie. Faylana looked at
the rich fabric and the jewels and she marveled that this chest full of
old clothing represented more wealth than she and her companions
had ever managed to accumulate during their adventures.
 “Shall we begin with your measurements?” asked Veera. “Or
would you like to pick some things out first?”
“Um, measurements, I suppose,” said Faylana, gazing down
at her filthy dress.
“Very good, miss,” said Veera. “I will help you undress.”
Veera’s hands were quick to the task and practiced as she
removed the layers of Faylana’s clothing. Faylana had little chance
to become embarrassed, her clothing was removed so quickly. She
stepped out of her skirt and her panties and stood naked. Veera
pulled Faylana’s arms down to her sides and pressed a hand
between Faylana’s thighs to adjust the elf’s stance. Faylana sucked
in a breath as Veera’s thumb grazed against her quim.
“Apologies, miss,” said Veera, crouching beside Faylana.
“Only trying to measure you properly.”
“Y-yes, of course,” said Faylana.
Veera’s tape was cool against Faylana’s bottom. The backs
of her legs. Her thigh. Her mound. The tape wrapped her slender
waist and measured her ample hips. It encircled her plentiful bust.
Veera’s hands hefted Faylana’s breasts as if measuring them, the
young maid’s face against Faylana’s back as she stood behind her
and reached around to her front.
“Yes, very good,” said Veera. “You are a cup size larger than
Helga and yet much trimmer in the waist. Her dresses will require
quite a few adjustments, but I am quick with a needle and thread.
Very good, miss. Pick what you like.”
“Shall I put my clothing back on?” asked Faylana.
“Those I shall take to the laundry,” said Veera. She
rummaged in the chest and selected a delicate linen gown. She
passed it to Faylana. “That might be a bit roomy, but it should protect
your modesty a bit. I assure you, there is no need, for you are quite
fetching, miss, and I have seen many naked bodies in my duties.”
“Fetching?” asked Faylana.
 Veera’s cheeks colored just a bit more. Her smile was
mischievous. “I shall take these down to the laundry and bring you
some refreshment.”
She curtsied and left Faylana to choose from a wardrobe’s
worth of luxurious gowns, dresses, and bodices.
Three floors down and on the other side of the castle, Caldric
eased his body into the bath that had been drawn for him. He
groaned as the soapy, opaque water engulfed him and the steaming
heat permeated his aching muscles. The heat hurt in his wound, but
Momo had assured him it was safe to take a bath as long as she
cleaned and bandaged his abdomen again afterwards.
The initial pain of the heat receded and Caldric let out a
groan of comfort. He had been filthy and stinking of cum from the
mess he’d made in the wagon. Ser Godrick had commented on his
stench and told him to have a bath before the feast.
Any chance to belittle me in front of Faylana, thought Caldric.
He had seen the way the huge knight had stood close to her at every
opportunity.
Tavek saw it too. Tavek had warned him.
“He’ll try to take her from you,” the dwarf had said as they
filed into the castle. “Keep her close to you, Caldric. The boar is on
the prowl for a wife and an elf would be quite a prize.”
“Not a lot I can do about it while I am laid up with this
damned injury,” growled Caldric, sinking into the wooden wash tub
until his chin was beneath the water.
“Then you must heal as swiftly as possible,” murmured Momo
Unahara, entering the bathroom.
The White Healer had changed into a fresh gown of pure
white, her eyes covered in a blindfold marked with a red rune of the
goddess Lasha. Despite the blindfold, she sauntered confidently
towards the tub as if she could clearly see the room. What was
visible of Momo’s face was quite beautiful, with a delicate nose and
full, pouty lips. Her skin was pale golden in color.
 She was rather tall and made slender by the corset of her
gown, but her hips were wide and her breasts were absolutely
enormous. Her corset-bolstered breasts strained the limits of the
human body, bulging and hanging against the gown as if eager to
burst forth. Her nipples stood erect beneath the gown’s fabric, plump
and inviting. There was a silver clasp at the front of Momo’s corset
and Caldric knew that it would allow her to open the front of the
gown and expose her breasts. Her milk, like all White Healers, was
the key to her healing magic.
Momo wore her hair up, threaded around a pair of silver
needles. As she approached the tub, Caldric wondered if the healer
could wield those needles as weapon if the situation demanded she
protect herself.
“Ah, sister,” said Caldric, smiling slightly as he watched her
hips move and her breasts heave. “Is it time already for you to heal
me?”
“They are setting up for a feast,” she said and knelt carefully
beside the wooden tub. “I would not want you to fill your belly with
food and leave no room for the cure.”
“I wasn’t very hungry anyway,” said Caldric. “Perhaps some
wine. And the, ah, cure.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling slightly as she began to open
the silver clasp.
Caldric stared, anticipating the release of her huge breasts
and the way they dropped as they escaped from the corset. He
licked his lips. He felt ashamed that he wanted to suck milk from this
woman and yet this was the way of her order’s healing magic. It was
not his place to judge the mysteries of Sisterhood of the White.
Although he was curious…
“Momo,” he began, watching the clasp pop open as her
breasts began to push open the corset, “might I ask how it is that you
came to be so, um, milky? Were you a mother?”
 “We are the mothers of Lasha and she of us,” said Momo,
freeing her pale golden breasts and hefting them in her hands. They
overflowed her fingers. Brown nipples taut and straining with her
milk. Her body eager to express her holy cream. “We take the
blessing from an anointed priest. It is a holy ritual, but one that
resembles the way a child is made.”
“You have sex with a priest?” Caldric was enthralled.
She smiled as if tolerating an insult.
“It is a holy ritual,” she repeated. “The cleric’s seed united
with my womb and the blessing of Lasha. I never carried a human
child, but I carried within me the healer’s magic. My body
transformed. My breasts swelled and grew heavy with holy milk. I
prayed, meditated, and practiced the healing arts during this time.
When the period ended, I was ready to become a chosen sister and
spread my healing magic to the needy. Such as you, Caldric.”
She leaned against the edge of the tub, hanging her huge
breasts close to Caldric’s face. The undersides of her dangling
breasts broke the cloudy surface of the water. Her jutting nipples
were so close that he could turn to them and touch them with his
lips.
“I don’t like it here,” he said, tearing his gaze away from her
massive breasts and looking at her blindfolded face. “This is a dark
place. I’m not going to say evil, not after what we’ve just been
through with the Plague Lord, but…”
“You do not like the lord of the castle,” said Momo. “I
understand. He is a cursed man.”
“What? What do you mean?” Caldric sat up a little.
“I cannot say for certain, such things are not within my
training as a healer, but I feel the shadow of old magic upon him. His
blood is cursed.”
“He lusts after Faylana,” said Caldric, unable to keep the
bitterness from his tone. “He would have her while I am lamed by my
injury.”
 “You mean the elf,” said Momo. “She loves you. This I can
sense. She is bright – incandescent – with much life in her. She
burns with her love for you and…”
Momo’s words trailed off.
“What?” asked Caldric.
“No,” she said. “It is time for you to take your cure, Caldric. I
will say no more.”
Any thought of a follow-up question was forgotten as Momo
leaned her huge tits against Caldric face. A fat nipple brushed his
lips. Her hand pressed at her mound and her warm milk flowed
against Caldric’s lips. He opened his mouth at that first sweet taste
and latched to her plentiful breast. He sucked at her and his stress
melted away. He drank the milk and felt its warmth gather first in his
gut and then in the wound that pierced his abdomen. The hole in his
back from the tip of the ratkin spear had nearly healed. The entry
wound was bigger. Tingling as he drank. His belly filling with Momo’s
delicious cream.
His cock stiffening and rising from the water.
“You worry about her, I can feel this,” murmured the
priestess, freeing her nipple from Caldric’s mouth. She fed him her
other nipple and he resumed gratefully sucking. “I cannot heal your
wounded heart, but perhaps I can relieve some of your pain.”
Caldric’s eyes widened as he felt Momo’s hand wrap around
his shaft. His eyelids fluttered closed again and for several seconds
he lost himself in the pleasure of sucking at her nipple as she worked
her hand on his soapy cock. Then she lifted her breasts from his
face and moved their soft weight to his lap. He floated to the surface
of the water as Momo’s tits enveloped his hardness. Caldric’s cock
was not small, despite Faylana’s comparisons to Straka’s massive
member, but it was completely lost between Momo’s huge breasts.
“What are you doing?” gasped Caldric, lifting his head from
the water to watch her wank his cock with her squeezed tits.
“Shall I stop?” she asked, smiling with a bit of mischief.
 “N-no, I didn’t say that,” groaned Caldric. “But what has come
over you? The hand… I understood… but… Ohhhhhh, gods, they’re
so soft.”
“They’re softer after you’ve taken the cure,” she murmured.
“Not so full. If I am not giving the cure to someone in need I must
milk myself regularly. You are a relief to me. I shall provide relief to
you. I shall… milk you.”
“The healing… ohhhh… the healing is enough,” gasped
Caldric, watching her work faster and faster. Her tits squeezing
tightly around his cock. So soft. So luscious and warm. Like a
summer cloud surrounding his manhood.
“Do not complain, Caldric,” purred Momo, leaning her tits into
the water and causing it to ripple with the motion of her breasts on
his cock. “Give me your milk. Let the pressure build… build… build…
until you feel as if you will burst.”
“Y-yes,” moaned Caldric, the ripples in the water splashing
over his chin. “Ohhhh! It’s building! I’m going to burst!”
“Do not fear, Caldric. I will keep you clean.” Momo parted her
breasts, and the pressure was gone from Caldric’s shaft. It was
replaced a moment later by her stroking hand. She leaned her face
to his cock and he groaned as her small, pouty mouth opened and
engulfed his cockhead. She did not take him deeply, but her swirling
tongue and sucking lips cradling the head of his cock was enough.
“Ahhhhh! I’m cumming!” he cried, feeling the inexorable rush
of his orgasm.
“Mmmmmm!” moaned Momo, bobbing her lips over his
cockhead as she worked her hand on his shaft. He thrust through
her fingers, surging, unable to contain the welling eruption of his
cock. Pulses of pleasure gushed into Momo’s mouth and the
priestess of Lasha drank his seed without hesitation. Her lips cradled
him and slurped at him until he had spent his full load into her mouth.
She cleaned him with a few more slow licks before lifting her mouth.
 “Do you feel better now, Caldric?” she asked, rising high on
her knees beside the tub.
“Yes,” he groaned, his belly full and his balls empty as he
floated in the tub.
“Good,” said Momo and she stood and began to return her
bountiful breasts to her gown. “I will provide you with another dose of
the cure before you sleep tonight.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling with satisfaction, his worries
seeming far away indeed.

Feast of the Conquering Boar

The castle cleaned up well, observed Tavek. It had looked

like a sooty cave in here a couple days earlier. The servants had
scrubbed the residue of a hundred drunken parties from the inside of
the great hall and had hung fresh victory banners from the rafters
high above. Four long tables had been set out with an extravagant
feast. Every animal imaginable had been roasted and laid out upon
the tables except for the protected boars. Minstrels had been hired,
no doubt the best in Bramsch, who played like amateurs, but with
great enthusiasm. Half the whores of village had been rented out
and given costumes to dance and provide entertainment for local
dignitaries, such as they were, and Godrick’s chosen men.
Godrick was seated at the head of the table. On his right
hand sat Tavek. On his left, Faylana. Caldric had limped in and taken
a seat next to Faylana, but to Tavek’s eye the poor fighter did not
belong at the party.
“You can’t beat him in his own castle,” muttered the dwarf,
casting his eyes back to Godrick. The lord of the castle roared with
laughter as someone finished a joke. He raised his cup in one hand
to begin another toast as his other hand stroked Faylana’s leg under
the table.
 Tavek felt sorry for his friend, unable to protect himself or his
relationship in his convalescing state, but seeing Faylana stirred
Tavek’s cock. He remembered that last moment with her in
Zeegendorf. Lips pressing against hers. Faylana’s thighs as soft as
silken pillows. Her cunt gripping him and squeezing him. Gods, she
was beautiful, and Godrick had provided her with a magnificent red
dress that only enhanced the shape of her bountiful beauty.
“You’re staring at her,” said the women to Tavek’s left.
It was Miranda. The whore from the Pink Tulip had been the
only woman that Tavek could think to invite as his guest. Her creamy
flesh was overflowing a black dress that shaped her into a luscious
hourglass. Her face was painted in the height of powdered and
blushing fashion and her dark hair worn up in a braid that spilled
loose in a few springy curls down her slender neck. She was
beautiful in a certain coarse way and Tavek appreciated her
company.
“She’s beautiful,” said Tavek, biting a plum and feeling the
juice dribble down his chin.
“Aye, so thinks every man here,” purred Miranda. “Look at
Pel Gryphon. A proper gentleman, but his eyes are nearly popping
from his skull.”
Tavek followed her subtle gesture a few seats down the table
and saw the dashing commander of the Lucan Horseguard. He was
muscular and well-groomed, with a delicate mustache and an easy
smile. Only his straight posture and a dueling scar on his lower
cheek betrayed his martial disposition. Tavek had seen the man
acquit himself quite well in the fight against the ratkin. As Tavek
watched, Gryphon caught Faylana’s eye and winked at her.
“Oh, and even the squire is drooling after her,” chuckled
Miranda, pointing behind Godrick’s thronelike chair next to Tavek.
Godrick’s favorite squire, Andrei Turros, was holding a boar’s
head tower shield behind Godrick. The small young man was hardly
more than a boy, with a glossy blond bowl haircut and overly large
and earnest brown eyes. He was directing those eyes, rather
brazenly, at Faylana’s cleavage. Stood behind Godrick, he had an
excellent view straight down the front of Faylana’s bodice.
Tavek chuckled. He raised a cup to Andrei and the lad went
red in the face and straightened up behind his ceremonial shield.
Andrei Turros was the youngest son of House Turros, a nearby
merchant family that had been elevated to minor nobility during
Tarol’s last war. Two of Andrei’s brothers and an uncle were
attending the party in royal blue cloaks and wearing silver pins of the
mountain flower from their family’s coat of arms.
Tavek’s eyes returned to Faylana. She drew the eye with
every gesture of her hand to brush away an errant strand of golden
hair. Every shift in her seat and the slightest heave of her bosom.
The curl of her lips as she took a dainty bite. A brush of her napkin to
mop at a drop of wine in the corner of her mouth. Gods, she grew
more beautiful with each passing day.
“Another toast!” shouted Godrick, rising to his feet.
Everyone was forced to rise with him, including poor Caldric.
Tavek saw the dark circles and the sweat on his brow as Caldric
raised his cup.
“To my old friend, Caldric,” said Godrick, gesturing with his
cup. “Who fought the ratkin off until we could rescue him. When we
arrived, the tough bastard had a ratkin spear buried in his guts. But
look at him now! Celebrating with the rest of us! Ah, the best
swordsman Bramsch has ever seen, not counting myself, of course.”
Everyone was obliged to laugh.
“Here is to Caldric,” said Godrick, raising his cup.
Caldric raised his cup as everyone cheered. Tavek could see
the effort such a gesture required. Caldric practically fell back into his
seat when the toast was over. Faylana, noticing his condition, leaned
over to say something to him. Godrick squeezed her thigh and pulled
her attention away from Caldric. Alone in the crowded room, Caldric
turned to his wine for solace.
 Tavek was not the only one who saw Caldric’s condition. The
half-wise wizard, Borto, sat watching from afar. Being little known to
Godrick, he had been seated far from the head of the table,
alongside lesser dignitaries and common soldiers. These two groups
mixed poorly, with the soldiers gorging themselves on food and wine
while the dignitaries stared aghast and hoped the soldiers wouldn’t
grab their wives too many times.
Borto ignored the nearby drama to focus on the higher
intrigue. It was clear to Borto that Ser Godrick desired Faylana, but
the fat lord seemed to be torturing Caldric with repeated extravagant
toasts.
“Is he trying to kill him?” wondered Borto.
“Not kill him,” said a feminine voice beside Borto. “Just tire
him out. Make him give up.”
Borto cast his glance at the woman beside him. He knew she
was a servant, and quite a fetching one, with birdlike grace and shiny
dark hair. Slender, but well-furnished above the waist. What was her
name? Teela? Yeena?
The pretty young woman saw Borto struggling to place her
name and she extended a delicate hand.
“Veera Ismara,” she said. “Dressing maid here.”
“Ah, yes,” said Borto and on a whim he kissed her hand. She
giggled softly as his mustache and beard tickled her fingers. Her
dark eyes twinkled and Borto’s interest in the girl grew. A bit young
for him, perhaps, seeing as how he could have been her great-great-
grandfather. But spring wines could be so delicious. “I am Borto the
Wise. Enchanter, conjurer, and alchemist. Most powerful and most
learned in all of Tarol and the Lesser Kingdoms beyond. It is my
pleasure to meet you, Veera.”
“A wizard? I am honored,” she said, allowing him to kiss her
fingers several times before relinquishing her hand. “We have not
had a wizard here at Boar’s Rock in many years. My lord believes
most to be charlatans.”
 “Most are,” said Borto. “But not I, young lady. Magic is my
life.”
He held his hand under the table so that only Veera could
see it. With a whispered spell and a practiced gesture of his fingers,
Borto conjured a luminous red rose. He passed it to her and she
gasped as it twinkled and dispersed as though made from embers.
“How did you do that?” she whispered with awe.
“A simple spell,” said Borto. “I would be happy to show you if
there were a private place where I might—”
He was interrupted by another raucous toast. Ignoring the
toast was not an option as the soldiers shoved their chairs back and
loudly cheered and toasted. Veera stood for the toast and one ugly
brute named something ridiculous like “Clobb” grabbed Borto by his
shoulder and hauled him to his feet.
“Toast,” grunted Clobb, sloshing wine over the boar’s head
emblazoned on his red tabard.
“Toast,” agreed Borto bitterly as he raised his cup.
Back at the head of the table, the toasts were exhausting
Caldric and making Faylana quite drunk. Her tummy was warm with
all the wine and her head was buzzing. She smiled and raised her
cup for another toast. She felt Ser Godrick’s big hand on her lower
back.
“To my faithful squire, Andrei Turros!” declared Godrick.
“Without whom I might not fit into my armor and still mount my horse.
He of such a noble family, who sacrifices to remove my boots and
bring me more ale. To Andrei!”
“To Andrei!” chorused the guests.
As Godrick drank, his hand slid down to Faylana’s bottom.
She thought it felt pleasant massaging the plentiful peach of her
backside. She looked at him as she finished her sip and Godrick
smiled down at her, his beard damp with wine.
 “Ah, my lovely, it looks as though the wine is getting to
Caldric. Perhaps he should retire to the infirmary.”
Faylana saw that Caldric was in a bad state. His head was
still upright, but his were unfocused and his mouth hung open in a
dull grin.
“Perhaps I should take him to bed,” said Faylana. “Caldric,
my love, are you feeling well enough to talk?”
“Hmmmmm?” Caldric looked over at her, his eyes rolling.
“No,” said Godrick, clamping his hand on her wrist. “I will
have Andrei and Pel take him to his bed.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Pel Gryphon, rising from his seat
as Andrei set aside his shield and moved to the other side of Caldric.
They begin to lift Caldric from his chair so quickly and smoothly that
it was as if it had been rehearsed.
Despite her inebriated state, Faylana was clear-headed
enough to sense some of what was happening.
“My lord, I am not sure I should remain at the party without
him,” said Faylana, glancing back at Caldric as Andrei and Pel
Gryphon stood him up.
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Godrick, putting a heavy arm
around her shoulder. “He needs rest and cannot handle his wine.
That is no reason you and I should be deprived of one another’s
company. Let us retire to my study. We can have some brandy and
talk about… the future of my kingdom.”
“Your kingdom?” Faylana blinked in surprise at his choice of
word.
“My, ah, lands here,” said Godrick. “I call it my kingdom as a
joke. Come, my dear. Come. All will be well.”
Faylana allowed herself to be led away from the table and
towards a guarded side door. She stopped and glanced back over
her shoulder as Andrei and Pel practically carried Caldric out of the
great hall. She remembered how Caldric had warned her of Godrick.
Had made her promise to avoid him. Then Godrick gave her
backside another squeeze, his big hand demanding her attention.
Had Caldric really meant his warning about Ser Godrick, she
wondered, or had he meant the opposite? Had he been encouraging
her to surrender to Godrick’s desires?
Things could be so confusing with Caldric. He seemed to
hate Straka and yet he had enjoyed it when she had been fucked by
Straka. He even seemed to enjoy knowing that she had been
claimed by the half-orc.
Maybe, she thought as Ser Godrick led her to his study,
Caldric actually wanted her to surrender completely to the desires of
the lord of the castle. Perhaps Caldric wanted her to give her body to
the mountain of a man and tell Caldric all about it afterward.
She imagined how hard it would make Caldric’s cock to learn
she had been pleasured by the randy knight.

The Castle Echoes with Cries of Pleasure

Borto could hardly believe his good fortune. As the party had
descended into carousing and dancing, he had thought his chances
of finding a companion to keep his bed warm for the evening had
been reduced to nearly nil. Perhaps one of the hired entertainers to
relax him. But then, like an angel of Lasha sent to grant him mercy,
Veera had returned to him. Her cheeks flushed from dancing. Her
spirits high and her decolletage deep.
“Master Borto,” she said. “I thought you had left.”
“No, my dear,” he said, gesturing with his pipe. “Only short
and easily lost in the crowd. I saw you waltzing with those fine
horsemen.”
“Yes!” she laughed. “Quite fetching in their crimson tunics.
But I have had enough dancing for the evening. Would you care to
join me for a stroll?”
 She held out her elbow to him. He rather preferred a good sit
or perhaps a lie down, but a stroll with this lovely raven-haired
delight? How could he refuse?
“Of course, my dear,” he said, taking her arm. “Fresh
mountain air would do me well.”
They left the smoky warmth of the guild hall. Veera giggled
as she pulled Borto through the castle and to the outer courtyard.
The smell of mountain honeysuckle was thick in the air. They padded
over soft grass found a bench together beneath a statue of one of
Ser Godrick’s forebears. Leaner and meaner looking.
“Do you ever take assistants?” asked Veera, offering herself
up to him with her question.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” said Borto, taking both of her hands and
holding them against his chest. “I have taught many fine young
women. Every person has a bit of magic in them. But I can sense it
in you, my dear. Something more. The spark of a real witch.”
“Truly?” she gasped, her eyes wide and silvery in the
moonlight.
“Mmmhmmm,” said Borto, nodding sagely and pretending to
study her hands. “Deft fingers. Good for casting. And a warmth in
your core. I can sense it, my dear. Embers inside you, waiting to be
stoked by the right teacher.”
She leaned her head back against the statue’s plinth and
gazed up at the stars. Her beauty seemed magnified by the soft glow
of the night sky. Borto was quite taken with Veera, finding her
perhaps an equal to Faylana’s beauty. He wanted her. He wanted
her badly.
“I’ve always felt there was something more for me than
dressing noblemen and being groped in their wardrobes.” She
glanced over at Borto. “You’re not a groper, are you, Master Borto?”
He jerked back the hand that had been creeping towards her
thigh.
 “Ah, no, me? Ha ha. Not at all, my dear.” He took her hand
again. “I am a lover though. Unafraid to share my affection with
those I find enchanting. Such as you, my dear. So winsome. So vital.
A sylph cavorting in this moon-dewed garden.”
“Oh, Master Borto,” she giggled. “Such sweet words. Do you
mean… do you mean you have an interest in me?”
Those eyes – those breasts – so large and lovely! Of course,
he had an interest in the porcelain-skinned, raven-haired beauty.
“My dear, my heart stirs with passion,” he said and kissed
both her hands. “Your beauty is more potent than any spell I have
ever—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” she said, smiling. “You can stop saying
stuff like that. I’ll fuck you.”
Her innocence was flung away. She had been playing a
game with him, but it was a game he both lost and won as her lips
pressed against his and her hand sought the interior of his robe. Her
mouth was as sweet as the wine she had been drinking at the party.
Her lips soft and eager. Her body so warm and firm against him.
Veera knew what she wanted and she was not shy about getting it.
“Mmmmmm,” moaned Borto, surprised but not complaining
about the reversal. “My dear… I could teach you a spell or two…”
“Later,” she said, her hand finally discovering the path to his
loins. Her fingers encircling his stiff cock. She kissed him again, her
tongue hot and her breasts squeezing against his chest. She pushed
him back against the plinth and climbed astride his lap, gathering her
skirt up and dropping it over him as she settled the ruffled gusset of
her panties over his cock.
“You’re quite forward,” he gasped, feeling her stroking him.
Rubbing his cock against the soft, warm groove of her cunt through
the fabric of her panties.
“Let’s say it’s because I’m drunk, old man,” she laughed. She
lifted her hips and drew aside her panties. She bit her lower lip and
her eyelids fluttered as she settled her young cunt on Borto’s
straining cock.
The old wizard groaned in surprise as the heat of Veera’s
tight pussy enveloped his manhood. He grabbed the firm globes of
her ass through her skirt, clinging to her more for his own stability
than to fondle her. She rode her pussy down to his root, squeezing
him with her inner muscles.
“Gods,” gasped Borto, who did not hold the gods in
particularly high regard, but still felt the need to invoke them in that
moment. “That’s… that’s good.”
“Mmmmmhmmmm,” agreed Veera, wantonly moving her hips
and bouncing atop his cock. Her tits heaved against her bodice, up
and down, again and again, until she pulled at the laces and let her
creamy mounds fall free. Nearly against Borto’s face. Her soft
mounds marked with faint lines from the seams of her corset. Her
nipples small and pink and stiff as pebbles.
Borto was in heaven, disbelieving his luck at landing one of
the most beautiful women at the celebration. He might have believed
himself dreaming if Veera’s pert breasts weren’t rubbing in his face.
If her silken cunt weren’t gripping at him as she rode up and down
his cock’s length.
“Yes, my dear,” panted the old wizard. “Ohhhh. Your
loveliness… unmatched. I shall… teach you such things. I shall…
ahhh!”
He lost himself to the rhythmic, youthful movements of her
body atop his lap. Her dark hair shining in the moonlight. Her smile
visible above the mounds of her breasts as they swung and
splashed against Borto’s face.
“Yes, that’s it,” gasped Veera, her arms around his shoulders.
Her skirt moving and shushing atop his lap, hiding the steamy
obscenity of their union. “Oh, come on now, Borto. No… holding
back. Cum for me. Show me how a wizard cums.”
 Their intensifying motions knocked Borto’s floppy hat from his
head, revealing the bald patch in his white hair. His grip tightened on
Veera’s firm bottom. He lifted his hips to meet her, though his thrusts
hardly contributed to the sum of their movement.
“My dear, I warn you,” he wheezed, “to expect a
monumental… explosion!”
“Yes! Yesss!” she cried, upright atop him. Gripping him so
tightly with her slick cunt that it felt as though she were trying to
wring the pleasure from his cock. “Explode! Explode, Master Borto!”
“HnnaaaaaahhhhHHH!” he bellowed with pleasure, hilting
inside her as his cock strained. The rush of ecstasy erupted into hot
bursts of his seed, pumping into the young dressing maid’s tight
quim. She clearly felt his seed, crying out and slapping her tits
against his face as she fell against him. In the throes of his ecstasy,
Borto wiggled his fingers and moaned a few words into her bust and
sent sparkling hummingbirds and butterflies cavorting around them.
It was a trick he had used before during the consummation of
such acts, though never at the peak of his pleasure. A few of the
birds came out as flying beetles and bobbled around more than
swirling dramatically.
“Oooooooooh!” crooned Veera, clinging tightly to Borto as the
phantasmic creatures spun around their bodies. Her cunt trembled
and drained the seed of the lucky wizard. Her soft cries of pleasure
were as sweet as her delighted smile as she watched the display of
magical pyrotechnics.
The illumination faded and the pair slumped together on the
bench, laughing and catching their breath. It was the highlight of the
night for Borto.
“You know,” said Veera, dismounting from Borto and
squeezing beside him on the bench. “I’ve been thinking about your
injured friend.”
“Huh? You have?” He blinked at her. “Just now?”
 “No, earlier,” she said, smoothing her skirt. Borto watched
with dismay as she tucked her breasts back into her bodice and
began to lace it up. “I know that healer he brought is doing a fair job
of it, but I know of another cure for such things. Uses mountain
flowers and astringent mint. A dash of that peculiar milk. I know
there’s a recipe somewhere in the library. Might be you could brew
him up a potion. That would heal him quicker than those laden tits of
the healer.”
“Truly?” Borto was only half listening to what the girl was
saying. “That would be fine. I’ve brought my portable, ah, case of
alchemy such and such, hmm, I could, or rather, you could help me
brew a potion. If that were your inclination. I mean.”
He smiled at her, his ears ringing from the intensity of his
recent climax. Veera grinned and threw her arms around him,
squeezing his bearded face against the soft cushion of her cleavage.
“I’d like that, Master Borto,” she said. “I could learn so much
from you, I’m sure.”
Borto smiled happily, his nose buried in the perfumed valley
between Veera’s breasts. He couldn’t see her smile. Knowing.
Wicked.
The castle around the new lovers was alive with the sounds
of nocturnal pleasure. Partygoers had paired off with one another or
absconded with hired whores and were enjoying the softer delights
of an intimate aperitif. Tavek leaned against the windowsill of his
bedchamber, listening to the gasping from the castle’s inner
courtyard. Someone was certainly having a fine night. Somewhere
else in the castle, rhythmic moans were echoing down a hallway.
Further still, a woman’s delighted laughter signalled either a fine joke
or cruel amusement at a small cock. But the two in the courtyard
drowned everyone else out with another bout of yelling and moaning.
“Listen to them go,” chuckled Tavek, feeling the cool breeze
through the open window against his face. “I’m almost jealous.”
 “Will you pay attention?” demanded Miranda. “A girl will get
her feelings hurt.”
She held Tavek’s wet cock in her hand, crouching between
his dangling legs as he sat on the built-in bench beside the window.
Her knickers were off and she had one hand between her creamy
thighs as she had been nursing on Tavek’s rather large dwarf cock.
“Of course, my sweet,” said Tavek, stroking Miranda’s cheek.
He was feeling warm and happy and full of good wine. “Let me pay
you all the attention you deserve, my lovely harlot.”
He kissed her painted lips, tasting a salty hint of himself on
her tongue before sliding off the bench to join her on the rug beside
the fire. He burrowed under the layers of her skirt, much to her
delight, and assaulted her trimmed cunny with his eager tongue. Not
many would lick a whore, but Tavek had a deep appreciation for
Miranda and wanted to show it. She grabbed his head and thrust her
hips, savoring each lick of his tongue along her dewy slit.
“Nnnnnhnnn,” moaned Tavek, relishing her hot folds and
womanly musk. Touching himself as he licked. His cock ready to
plunge into that steamy thatch between Miranda’s dimpled thighs.
“Oooh, that’s the spot,” gasped Miranda. She rested a hand
on his head through her skirt, holding him against her cunt. Grinding
with her hips and drenching Tavek’s braided beard in her nectar. She
was gasping, on the very brink of ecstasy, when Tavek lifted his face
from between her thighs and threw back the covering of her skirt.
She looked at him with flushed annoyance. “Why’d you stop?”
“Because my prick is going to poke a hole through the floor
stones,” he grunted, pulling himself onto his knees between her
thighs. “You’ve had enough of my tongue. It’s time for some of this.”
He stroked his fat cock and beat it against her clit. Miranda
gasped and pulled her legs up with her hands beneath her knees.
“Alright then, dwarf,” she panted. “Show me what you can do
with a bottle of Bramsch Red in your belly. Most men can scarcely
get their cocks—OooooooOOOOoooh!”
 Tavek was as hard as stone as he hilted in her juicy cunt with
a single stroke. A dwarf worth his beard could drink a barrel of ale
and finish it off with a cask of brandy and still fuck. He grabbed
Miranda by her lightly padded waist and plowed deep into her cunny.
Or as deep as he could reach. Again and again. She was not virgin,
to be sure, but she gripped him with a whore’s skill. His thrusts sent
her fat tips swaying and slapping against her ribs and nearly into her
chin.
“Ohhhhhh, that’s it,” she moaned, her pleasure real. “Oh, you
fuck like you mean it, you do. That’s it. Harder now. Harder. I want to
feel it in the morning.”
Tavek, a bit peeved by her demands, pulled his cock out of
her cunt and roughly flipped Miranda onto her hands and knees. He
slapped her big ass, watching in jiggle as he rammed his cock into
her from behind. He gripped her wide hips, holding them tight as he
pummeled her pussy with furious thrusts.
Miranda was surprised by his strength and vigor. She’d seen
what the man had been drinking and he was only half a man at that.
“Oooooh, but the big half,” she gasped, finishing her thought
aloud.
The small bedchamber filled with the collision of their rutting
bodies. Sighs and moans echoing from the stone walls as they
reached their crescendo in almost perfect unison. Tavek growled and
cursed in a dwarven tongue he barely knew to speak. Miranda
wailed with unexpected pleasure, not just cumming, but cumming
hard on Tavek’s thrusting cock. She felt him twitching and spurting
inside her. Continuing to cum as he pulled out and wanked his seed
onto her creamy buttocks.
Tavek was suddenly very tired. He staggered back and
managed to collapse onto the rug by the fire.
Miranda remained with her plump bottom in the air a moment
longer, cum dripping from her folds and spattering her cheeks. She
reached back and wiped away Tavek’s seed with a practiced swipe
of her handkerchief and crawled over to the exhausted dwarf. He
was groaning, a stupid smile on his face. She kissed his shoulder.
His cheek just above his beard.
“Never thought… never thought I’d have feelings for a
whore,” said Tavek, using the word to poke at Miranda.
She smiled, beautiful despite being a bit older than most of
his lovers. Her body warm and soft against him. Her tits pressing and
overflowing his left arm and shoulder.
“Never thought I’d have feelings for a dwarf,” she said.
“Gods’ll surprise us all. But you’re a good fuck, Tavek. I reckon that’s
a horsecock for a dwarf. Feels big. Can’t be denied.”
“That’s what I like about you,” laughed Tavek, stroking her
hip. “Your so ladylike.”
“What do ya want? An elf?” She grinned. “Oh, but that’s right,
your friend has that elf. Pretty, she is. But you’ve had her once or
twice, haven’t you?”
Tavek sat up a bit, shocked that she had somehow known.
He sputtered, “No, not me, I never.”
“Right,” she laughed, kissing his chest. “You just look at her
with those dopey eyes of yours, thinking about how you’d like to rip
open her bodice. Suck on them big elf tits, eh? Plow her little golden
elf cunny? Bet that was a nice row to hoe.”
“Do not speak of this, Miranda,” growled Tavek.
“Temper, temper, little dwarf,” chuckled Miranda, playing with
his flaccid cock. “Not like your friend keeps much of a leash on her.
He’s moaning and groaning while Godrick has set his sights on her.
And Godrick gets what he wants.”
“Caldric has never been very good at keeping an eye on
Faylana,” admitted Tavek.
“I saw your friend carried back to his room by Pel Gryphon
and that squire,” said Miranda. “Godrick is probably already plowing
the elf. She’ll be wed to him before the week is over.”
 Tavek pushed Miranda away and stood up. It was exactly as
he had feared when Godrick had invited Faylana and the others
back to the castle. Ser Godrick was looking for a suitable wife and he
had fixated on Faylana the moment he’d met her.
Maybe it was guilt over his one-night fling with Faylana,
maybe it was loyalty to his friend or fear of what might happen to
Faylana if she wed Ser Godrick. Whatever the case, Tavek shook off
his cups and reached for his trousers. Miranda, lounging by the fire,
smiled at him with amusement.
“Where are you off to?” she chuckled.
“To do the right thing,” snapped Caldric.
“Alright then,” said Miranda, a bit miffed by his tone. “C’mere.
Let me help you lace up. You can fuck me again when you’re back.”
The infirmary was not so far from Tavek’s room. Caldric was
rolling in his bed, drenched in sweat from pain and drink.
“Should we leave him delirious like this?” asked Andrei
Turros. The young squire’s eyes were wide with concern. He
gathered that Ser Godrick cared little for this man, but Andrei had not
yet had the human instinct for compassion driven from his soul by
the depravity of nobility and the cruelty of battle.
Captain Pel Gryphon, though not noble, had seen more than
enough battle to harden his heart. He cared little for Caldric. The
man was a stranger to him.
“Godrick said nothing about tending to this wounded drunk,”
said the cavalry commander, smoothing a rumple in his crimson
tunic. “Track down his cow-titted wet nurse if you want. I have a
nubile little daughter of a duke drooling for my saber in the stable. I’d
like to make it to her before she gets bored and decides to have a go
at one of the stallions.”
Pel Gryphon was a swordsman of some renown, a
gentleman by reputation, handsome and well-groomed by all
appearances, and a cocksman of almost legendary practice. In his
thirty years he had pleased more well-bred ladies of Tarol than a
canter on a thoroughbred followed by a warm bath. He intended to
seduce his way into the nobility and have fun doing it. Though his
loyalty was unquestioned, he secretly held Ser Godrick in total
contempt.
He donned his white gloves and reached for the door. Andrei
hastened to follow him. The young squire stopped when Caldric let
out a miserable groan and thrashed on his bed.
“I shall… I shall fetch him some water,” said Andrei. “You go
ahead, Captain.”
“Carry on then, squire,” said Gryphon, lazily saluting and
already heading off down the hall.
Andrei scurried about the infirmary, tracking down a cup and
a fresh pitcher of water. He poured Caldric some water and returned
to the bedside. Caldric’s red-rimmed eyes were wide open. He
seemed to be in the throes of a favor, but unable to speak. Andrei
helped him to sit up and gave him a drink of water.
“Fay… Faylana,” choked Caldric. “Ser… Godrick. Bastard.”
Andrei pulled the cup of water away, his pride wounded by
the insult.
“No, you are mistaken. Ser Godrick Lucan is well bred and
not at all—”
Caldric clawed at Andrei’s tunic, pulling the boy closer. The
stench of wine and bile wafted off the warrior.
“Faylana. The elf. Godrick… pig.”
“Boar, sir,” said Andrei. “The boar. I shall leave you some
water to drink. Would you like me to find the healer?”
Caldric collapsed back into the bed. Muttering and closing his
eyes.
Andrei, affronted by Caldric’s apparent insults towards Ser
Godrick, left the warrior to sleep it off. Caldric moaned, twisting in the
sheets. Haunted by images of his old foe violating the woman he
loved.
 In the Study of the Pig

“Caldric mentioned that you knew each other,” said Faylana,

leaning her shapely hip against Ser Godrick’s oversized desk.
The fat knight was sitting nearby, in an overstuffed chair by
the fire, his hands caressing the mound of his belly in his scarlet
doublet. He watched Faylana fidget beneath drooping eyelids, a faint
smile visible within his red beard.
“Did he not tell you?” asked Godrick.
“Not much. He has not been well. But thank you for seeing to
his healing.”
“Oh, yes, the White Healer,” chuckled Godrick. “I am sure
even now that lovely priestess is holding his face to her bosom.
Feeding him a fair portion of that sweet milk. I almost envy him.
Perhaps I’ll stab myself in the arm and ask that holy heifer to give me
a taste.”
Faylana’s cheeks, already flushed from the wine, turned an
even deeper shade of red. She pictured Momo leaning her tits
against Caldric’s face as he sucked greedily at her nipples. The
thought inspired a hot flash of jealousy that Faylana instantly knew
was unfair. He was healing and, after all, had been so very tolerant
of Faylana’s insatiable elven desires.
“Ah, well, Caldric and I share a unique connection,” said
Godrick, his eyes roaming over Faylana’s body in her rather snug
gown. “We both loved the same girl, you see. We were hardly more
than boys and Phoebe was, for a time, a playmate. She liked to
roughhouse and practice swords with us both. But as we grew older,
there was no denying she was blossoming into a beautiful woman.
We both hand intentions Phoebe, a close bond of friendship aching
to become something more. And… nature took its course.”
“You stole her from him?” asked Faylana.
 “To the contrary, he stole her from me,” said Godrick.
“Phoebe and I enjoyed a brief romance, intense as such things are in
the fire of youth. Caldric was jealous. He wanted to steal her away
from me. To ride with her to a neighboring kingdom. He tried… but
there was a tragic accident.”
“Oh, no,” said Faylana, covering her mouth with her hand.
Her brow furrowed sympathetically.
“Yes, her horse was not used to the eastern pass through the
mountains. Caldric’s horse was and he tried to lead her through the
pass at night. Her horse lost its footing and, I’m sorry to say, horse
and rider perished. She was gone. Stolen from me by my good friend
Caldric and then stolen from me again by fate.”
Godrick seemed to choke back his emotion. Faylana moved
closer to him. Placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He looked
up at her, his eyes welling with emotion.
“I lost a friend too, you know,” said Godrick. “We blamed
each other for her death. It took me years to accept that it was an
accident and not something more. I don’t think Caldric has ever
accepted it.”
“How could he blame you?” said Faylana, crouching beside
Godrick’s chair.
“I cannot say, Faylana,” murmured Godrick, locking eyes with
her. He took her hand and kissed it, his beard soft and his lips softer.
He held her hand against him. “Perhaps by saving his life I have
earned his trust. Perhaps by bringing you… he has sought to heal
the rift between us.”
“By… bringing me?”
“Yes. He knew I was alone all these years. In need of a
woman to remain beside me.” He kissed Faylana’s hand again. “In
need of a wife.”
The word sent a jolt of wariness through Faylana. This man
sought her as his wife? Such an offer seemed to be a trap yawning
open beneath her. She could not permit herself to fall prey to Ser
Godrick’s desires.
“Oh, my lord, there has been a misunderstanding,” said
Faylana. “I love Caldric and have no desire to marry anyone else.”
“So he has asked for your hand in marriage?” Ser Godrick
raised an eyebrow. “Given you a ring that you have simply forgotten
to wear?”
Faylana was just drunk enough to glance down at her hand
and extend her ring finger.
“No, he has not, but—”
Ser Godrick interrupted Faylana by swinging a big arm
around her slender waist and pulling her against the side of his chair.
She cried out, bumping into the chair and then falling over the arm.
She plopped into his lap, almost on her back, looking up at him in
surprise as her body rested across his legs like a feast waiting to be
devoured.
She was stunned for a moment. Ser Godrick, for all his
piggish behavior and gluttonous appetites, was rather handsome.
His red beard suited him and he even wore his size well. He smiled
genuinely at her, cradling the back of her head as his other hand
began to prowl over the buttons of her corseted bodice.
“I have been so very alone since Phoebe was taken from me,
Faylana,” said Godrick, his voice a deep rumble that stirred inside
her. “I would not hesitate to offer you a ring of finest gold and
priceless gems. To bathe you in rosewater and clothe you in the
finest silks of Shaddobar. I would make you a wife and you would
give me sons that have the strength of a Lucan and the wisdom of
an elf.”
“Sons?” Faylana murmured, her heart beat faster as she
remembered the feeling of Straka spilling his seed inside her. The
hot throb of the estrea powder triggering her fertility. What would Ser
Godrick do if she gave birth to an orc son rather than his son? What
would his reaction be?
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
cause o’t to ony man, though I whiles think it wad be naething to me,
that’s sae weel used till’t mysel.’
“‘Helen,’ said I, ‘when did Willie Meldrum find opportunities to
gain your heart? I never saw him in the house in my life.’
“‘Oh, sir!’ said she, ‘gin I could hae bidden in the house, he wad
never hae seen me either; but I was forced to walk out wi’ the bairns,
and there was nae place sae quiet and out o’ the gate, but Willie was
sure to find me out. If I gaed down the burn, Willie was aye fishing; if
I gaed up the loan, there was aye something to be dune about the
kye. At the kirk door, Willie was aye at hand to spier for your honour,
and gie the bairns posies; and after our sair distress, when I was little
out for mony a day, I couldna slip out ae moonlight night, to sit a
moment upon Jeanie’s grave, but Willie was there like a ghaist aside
me, and made my very heart loup to my mouth!’
“‘And do you return his good-will, Helen?’ said I, gravely.
“‘Oh, sir,’ said the poor thing, trembling, ‘I darena tell you a lie. I
tried to be as proud and as shy as a lassie should be to ane abune her
degree, and that might do sae muckle better, puir fallow! I tried to
look anither gate when I saw him, and mak mysel deaf when he
spoke o’ his love; but oh! his words were sae true and kindly, that I
doubt mine werena aye sae short and saucy as they sud hae been. It’s
hard for a tocherless, fatherless lassie to be cauldrife to the lad that
wad tak her to his heart and hame; but oh! it wad be harder still, if
she was to requite him wi’ a father’s curse! It’s ill eneuch to hae nae
parents o’ my ain, without makin’ mischief wi’ ither folk’s. The auld
man gets dourer and dourer ilka day, and the young ane dafter and
dafter—sae ye maun just send me aff the country to some decent
service, till Willie’s a free man, or a bridegroom.’
“‘My dear Helen,’ said I, ‘you are a good upright girl, and I will
forward your honest intentions. If it be God’s will that Willie and you
come together, the hearts of men are in His hand. If otherwise, yours
will never at least reproach you with bringing ruin on your lover’s
head.’
“So I sent Helen, Mr Francis, to my brother’s in the south country,
where she proved as great a blessing and as chief a favourite as she
had been with us. I saw her some months afterwards; and though her
bloom had not returned, she was tranquil and contented, as one who
has cast her lot into the lap of Heaven.
“Well, to make a long story short, Willie, though he was
unreasonable enough, good, worthy lad as he is, to take in dudgeon
Helen’s going away (though he might have guessed it was all for his
good), was too proud, or too constant, to say he would give her up, or
bind himself never to marry her, as his father insisted. So the old
man, one day, after a violent altercation, made his will, and left all
his hard-won siller to a rich brother in Liverpool, who neither
wanted nor deserved it. Willie, upon this quarrel, had left home very
unhappy, and stayed away some time, and during his absence old
Blinkbonnie was taken extremely ill. When he thought himself dying,
he sent for me (I had twice called in vain before), and you may be
sure I did my best not to let him depart in so unchristian a frame
towards his only child. I did not deny his right to advise his son in
the choice of a wife; but I told him he might search the world before
he found one more desirable than Helen, whose beauty and sense
would secure his son’s steadiness, and her frugality and sobriety
double his substance. I told him how she had turned a deaf ear to all
his son’s proposals of a clandestine marriage and made herself the
sacrifice to his own unjust and groundless prejudices. Dying men are
generally open to conviction; and I got a fresh will made in favour of
his son, with a full consent to his marriage honourably inserted
among its provisions. This he deposited with me, feeling no great
confidence in the lawyer who had made his previous settlement, and
desired me to produce it when he was gone.
“It so happened that I was called to a distance before his decease,
and did not return till some days after the funeral. Willie had flown
home on hearing of his father’s danger, and had the comfort to find
him completely softened, and to receive from his nearly speechless
parent many a silent demonstration of returned affection. It was,
therefore, a doubly severe shock to him, on opening the first will (the
only one forthcoming in my absence), to find himself cut off from
everything, except the joint lease of the farm, and instead of five
thousand pounds, not worth a shilling in the world. His first
exclamation, I was told, was, ‘It’s hard to get baith scorn and skaith—
to lose baith poor Helen and the gear. If I had lost it for her, they
might hae ta’en it that likit!’
 “About a week after, I came home and found on my table a letter
from Helen. She had heard of Willie’s misfortune, and in a way the
most modest and engaging, expressed herself ready, if I thought it
would still be acceptable, to share his poverty and toil with him
through life. ‘I am weel used to work,’ said she, ‘and, but for you, wad
hae been weel used to want. If Willie will let me bear a share o’ his
burden, I trust in God we may warsle through thegither; and, to tell
you the truth,’ added she, with her usual honesty, ‘I wad rather
things were ordered as they are, than that Willie’s wealth should
shame my poverty.’
“I put this letter in one pocket, and his father’s will in the other,
and walked over to Blinkbonnie. Willie was working with the manly
resolution of one who has no other resource. I told him I was glad to
see him so little cast down.
“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I’ll no say but I am vexed that my father gaed to his
grave wi’ a grudge against me, the mair sae, as when he squeezed my
hand on his death-bed I thought a’ was forgotten. But siller is but
warld’s gear, and I could thole the want o’t, an’ it had nae been for
Helen Ormiston, that I hoped to hae gotten to share it wi’ me. She
may sune do better now, wi’ that bonnie face and kind heart o’ hers!’
“‘It is indeed a kind heart, Willie,’ answered I: ‘if ever I doubted it,
this would have put me to shame!’——So saying, I reached him the
letter, and oh, that Helen could have seen the flush of grateful
surprise that crossed his manly brow as he read it! It passed away,
though, quickly, and he said, with a sigh, ‘Very kind, Mr Monteith,
and very like hersel; but I canna take advantage o’ an auld gude will,
now that I canna reward it as it deserves!’”
‘And what if ye could, Willie?’ said I, ‘as far, at least, as worldly
wealth can requite true affection? There is your father’s will, made
when it pleased God to touch his heart, and you are as rich a man as
you were when Helen Ormiston first refused to make you a beggar.’
“Willie was not insensible to this happy change in his prospects;
but his kind heart was chiefly soothed by his father’s altered feelings,
and at the honourable mention of Helen’s name he fairly began to
greet.
“The sequel is easily told; but I think the jaunt I made to
Tweeddale with Willie, to bring back Helen Ormiston in triumph,
was the proudest journey of my life.
“A year ago I married them at the manse, amid much joy, but
abundance of tears in the nursery. To-day, when, according to an old
promise, I am to christen my name-son Charlie, I expect to be fairly
deaved with the clamorous rejoicings of my young fry, who, I verily
believe, have not slept this week for thinking of it. But” (pulling out
his watch), “it is near four o’clock: sad quality hour for Blinkbonnie!
The hotch-potch will be turned into porridge, and the how-towdies
burnt to sticks, if we don’t make haste!”

I wish, my dear reader, you could see the farm of Blinkbonnie,

lying as it does on a gently sloping bank, sheltered from the north by
a wooded crag or knoll, flanked upon the east by a group of venerable
ashes, enlivened and perfumed on the west by a gay luxuriant
garden, and open on the south to such a sea-view, as none but
dwellers on the Firth of Forth have any idea of. Last Saturday, it was
the very beau ideal of rural comfort and serenity. The old trees were
reposing, after a course of somewhat boisterous weather, in all the
dignity and silence of years. The crows, their usual inhabitants,
having gone on their Highland excursion, those fantastic interlopers,
Helen’s peacocks (a present from the children at the manse), were
already preparing for their “siesta” on the topmost boughs. Beneath
the spreading branches the cows were dreaming delightfully, in
sweet oblivion of the heats of noon. In an adjoining paddock,
graceful foals, and awkward calves, indulged in their rival gambols;
while shrieks of joy from behind the garden hedge, told these were
not the only happy young things in creation.
We deposited our horses in a stable, to whose comforts they bore
testimony by an approving neigh, and made our way by a narrow
path, bordered with sweet-brier and woodbine, to the front of the
house. Its tall, good-looking young master came hastily to meet us,
and I would not have given his blushing welcome, and the bashful
scrape that accompanied it, for all the most elaborate courtesies of
Chesterfield.
No sooner were our footsteps heard approaching, than out poured
the minister’s whole family from the little honey-suckled porch, with
glowing faces and tangled hair, and frocks, probably white some
hours before, but which now claimed affinity with every bush in the
garden.
Mrs Monteith gently joined in the chorus of reproaches to papa for
being so late; but the look with which she was answered seemed to
satisfy her, as it usually did, that he could not be in fault. We were
then ushered into the parlour, whose substantial comforts, and
exquisite consistency, spoke volumes in favour of its mistress.
Opulence might be traced in the excellent quality of the homely
furniture—in the liberal display of antique china (particularly the
choice and curious christening-bowl)—but there was nothing
incongruous, nothing out of keeping, nothing to make you for a
moment mistake this first-rate farmhouse parlour for a clumsy, ill-
fancied drawing-room. A few pots of roses, a few shelves of books,
bore testimony to Helen’s taste and education; but there were
neither exotics nor romances in the collection; and the piece of
furniture evidently dearest in her eyes was the cradle, in which
reposed, amid all the din of this joyous occasion, the yet
unchristened hero of the day. It is time to speak of Helen herself, and
she was just what, from her story, I knew she must be. The actors, in
some striking drama of human life, often disappoint us by their utter
dissimilitude to the pictures of our mind’s eye, but Helen was
precisely the perfection of a gentle, modest, self-possessed Scottish
lassie,—the mind, in short, of Jeanie Deans, with the personal
advantages of poor Effie. Her dress was as suitable as anything else.
Her gown, white as snow, and her cap of the nicest materials, were
neither of them on the pattern of my lady’s; but they had a matronly
grace of their own, worth a thousand second-hand fashions; and
when Helen, having awakened her first-born, delivered him, with
sweet maternal solicitude, into the outstretched arms of the
minister’s proud and favoured youngest girl, I thought I never saw a
picture worthier the pencil of Correggio. It was completed, when,
bending in all the graceful awkwardness of a novice over the group,
Willie received his boy into his arms, and vowed before his pastor
and his God to discharge a parent’s duty, while a parent’s transport
sparkled in his eyes.
I have sat, as Shakspeare says, “at good men’s feasts ere now”—
have ate turtle at the lord mayor’s and venison at peers’ tables, and
soufflés at diplomatic dinners—have ate sturgeon at St Petersburg,
and mullet at Naples; mutton in Wales, and grouse in the Highlands;
roast-beef with John Bull, and volauxvents at Beauvilliers’; but I
have no hesitation in saying that the hotch-potch and how-towdies of
Blinkbonnie excelled them all. How far the happy human faces of all
ages round the table contributed to enhance the gusto, I do not
pretend to decide; but I can tell Mr Véry that, among all his
consommés, there is nothing like a judicious mixture of youth and
beauty, with manliness, integrity, and virtue.—Blackwood’s
Magazine.
A SCOTTISH GENTLEWOMAN OF THE LAST
CENTURY.

By Susan Edmonstone Ferrier.

“Though last, not least of nature’s works, I must now introduce

you to a friend of mine,” said Mr Douglas, as they bent their steps
towards the Castlehill of Edinburgh. “Mrs Violet Macshake is an aunt
of my mother’s, whom you must often have heard of, and the last
remaining branch of the noble race of Girnachgowl.”
“I am afraid she is rather a formidable person, then?” said Mary.
Her uncle hesitated.
“No, not formidable,—only rather particular, as all old people are;
but she is very good-hearted.”
“I understand; in other words, she is very disagreeable. All ill-
tempered people, I observe, have the character of being good-
hearted, or else all good-hearted people are ill-tempered—I can’t tell
which.”
“It is more than reputation with her,” said Mr Douglas, somewhat
angrily; “for she is, in reality, a very good-hearted woman, as I
experienced when a boy at college. Many a crown-piece and half-
guinea I used to get from her. Many a scold, to be sure, went along
with them; but that, I daresay, I deserved. Besides, she is very rich,
and I am her reputed heir; therefore gratitude and self-interest
combine to render her extremely amiable in my estimation.”
They had now reached the airy dwelling where Mrs Macshake
resided, and having rung, the door was at length most deliberately
opened by an ancient, sour-visaged, long-waisted female, who
ushered them into an apartment, the coup d’œil of which struck a
chill to Mary’s heart. It was a good-sized room, with a bare
sufficiency of small-legged dining-tables, and lank hair-cloth chairs,
ranged in high order round the walls. Although the season was
advanced, and the air piercing cold, the grate stood smiling in all the
charms of polished steel; and the mistress of the mansion was seated
by the side of it in an arm-chair, still in its summer position. She
appeared to have no other occupation than what her own
meditations afforded; for a single glance sufficed to show that not a
vestage of book or work was harboured there. She was a tall, large-
boned woman, whom even Time’s iron hand had scarcely bent, as
she merely stooped at the shoulders. She had a drooping snuffy nose,
a long turned-up chin, small, quick, gray eyes, and her face projected
far beyond her figure, with an expression of shrewd, restless
curiosity. She wore a mode (not a-la-mode) bonnet, and cardinal of
the same; a pair of clogs over her shoes, and black silk mittens on her
arms.
As soon as she recognized Mr Douglas, she welcomed him with
much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand,—patted
him on the back,—looked into his face with much seeming
satisfaction; and, in short, gave all the demonstrations of gladness
usual with gentlewomen of a certain age. Her pleasure, however,
appeared to be rather an impromptu than a habitual feeling; for as
the surprise wore off, her visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic
expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impression
her reception might have excited.
“An’ wha thought o’ seein’ you e’noo?” said she, in a quick gabbling
voice; “what’s brought you to the toun? Are ye come to spend your
honest faither’s siller, ere he’s weel cauld in his grave, puir man?”
Mr Douglas explained, that it was upon account of his niece’s
health.
“Health!” repeated she, with a sardonic smile, “it wad mak a
howlet laugh to hear the wark that’s made about young fowk’s health
noo-a-days. I wonder what ye’re a’ made o’,” grasping Mary’s arm in
her great bony hand; “a wheen puir feckless windle-straes—ye maun
awa to England for yer healths. Set ye up! I wonder what came o’ the
lasses i’ my time, that but to bide hame? And whilk o’ ye, I sud like to
ken, will e’er live to see ninety-sax, like me?—Health! he! he!”
 “You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,” said Mr
Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord.
“Time eneugh—will ye let me draw my breath, man?—fowk canna
say a’ thing at ance. An’ ye but to hae an English wife, too?—A Scotch
lass wadna ser’ ye. An’ yer wean, I’se warran’, it’s ane o’ the warld’s
wonders—it’s been unco lang o’ comin’—he! he!”
“He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!”
said Mr Douglas, in allusion to his father’s death.
“An’ wha’s faut was that?—I ne’er heard tell the like o’t, to hae the
bairn kirsened an’ its grandfather deein’! But fowk are neither born,
nor kirsened, nor do they wad or dee as they used to do—a’thing’s
changed.”
“You must indeed have witnessed many changes,” observed Mr
Douglas, rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory
nature.
“Changes!—weel a wat, I sometimes wonder if it’s the same warld,
an’ if it’s my ain head that’s upon my shouthers.”
“But with these changes you must also have seen many
improvements?” said Mary, in a tone of diffidence.
“Impruvements!” turning sharply round upon her, “what ken ye
about impruvements, bairn? A bonnie impruvement to see tylors and
sclaters leevin’ whaur I mind Jukes and Yerls. An’ that great
glowerin’ New Town there,” pointing out of her windows, “whaur I
used to sit and look at bonnie green parks, and see the kye milket,
and the bits o’ bairnies rowin’ an’ tumblin’, an’ the lasses trampin’ in
their tubs;—what see I noo, but stane and lime, and stour and dirt,
and idle chiels, and dunket-out madams prancing.—Impruvements,
indeed!”
Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady’s
harangue; but after having duly wiped her nose with her coloured
handkerchief, and shook off all the particles that might be presumed
to have lodged upon her cardinal, she resumed:
“An’ nae word o’ ony o’ your sisters gaun to get men yet? They tell
me they’re but coorse lasses; an’ wha’ll tak ill-faured, tocherless
queans, when there’s walth o’ bonny faces an’ lang purses i’ the
market?—he, he!” Then resuming her scrutiny of Mary,—“An’ I’se
warran’ ye’ll be lookin’ for an English sweetheart too;—that’ll be
what’s takin’ ye awa to England!”
“On the contrary,” said Mr Douglas, seeing Mary was too much
frightened to answer for herself—“on the contrary, Mary declares she
will never marry any but a true Highlander—one who wears the dirk
and plaid, and has the ‘second sight.’ And the nuptials are to be
celebrated with all the pomp of feudal times; with bagpipes and
bonfires, and gatherings of clans, and roasted sheep, and barrels of
whisky, and”——
“Weel a wat an’ she’s i’ the right there,” interrupted Mrs
Mackshake, with more complacency than she had yet shown. “They
may ca’ them what they like, but there’s nae waddin’s noo. Wha’s the
better o’ them but innkeepers and chaise-drivers? I wadna count
mysel married i’ the hidlin’s way they gang aboot it noo.”
Mr Douglas, who was now rather tired of the old lady’s
reminiscences, availed himself of the opportunity of a fresh pinch to
rise and take leave.
“Ou, what’s takin’ ye awa, Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there,”
laying her hand upon his arm, “an’ rest ye, and tak a glass o’ wine; or
maybe,” turning to Mary, “ye wad rather hae a drap broth to warm
ye. What gars ye look sae blae, my bairn? I’m sure it’s no cauld; but
ye’re just like the lave; ye gang a’ skiltin’ about the streets half-naked,
an’ then ye maun sit and birsle yersels afore the fire at hame.”
The wine being drunk, and the cookies discussed, Mr Douglas
made another attempt to withdraw, but in vain.
“Canna ye sit still a wee, man, an’ let me speir after my auld freens
at Glenfern? Hoo’s Grizzy, an’ Jacky, an’ Nicky?—aye working awa at
the pills and the drogs?—he, he! I ne’er swallowed a pill, nor gaed a
doit for drogs, a’ my days, an’ see an ony of them’ll run a race wi’ me
when they’re naur five score.”
Mr Douglas here paid her some compliments upon her
appearance, which were pretty well received; and added that he was
the bearer of a letter from his aunt Grizzy, which he would send
along with a roebuck and a brace of moor game.
“Gin your roebuck’s nae better than your last, atweel it’s no worth
the sending,—puir fushionless dirt, no worth the chewing; weel a
wat, I begrudged my teeth on’t. Your muirfowl was no that ill, but
they’re no worth the carrying; they’re dang cheap i’ the market e’noo,
so it’s nae great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o’ good
mutton, or a caller sawmont, there would hae been some sense in’t;
but ye’re ane o’ the fowk that’ll ne’er harry yoursel wi’ your presents;
it’s but the pickle poother they cost you, an’ I’se warrant ye’re
thinking mair o’ your ain diversion than o’ my stamack when ye’re at
the shooting o’ them, puir beasts.”
Mr Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against
himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his
life before; but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His
colour rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath
burst from his lips, as he strode indignantly towards the door.
His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before
him, and breaking into a discordant laugh, as she patted him on the
back,—
“So, I see ye’re just the auld man, Archie,—aye ready to tak the
strumps, an ye dinna get a’thing yer ain way. Mony a time I had to
fleech ye oot o’ the dorts when ye was a callant. Div ye mind hoo ye
was affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon pie an’ a tanker
o’ tippenny, ae night to yer four-hours, afore some leddies? he, he,
he! Weel a wat, your wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for
ye’re a cumstarie chield, Archie.”
Mr Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or
be angry.
“Come, come, sit ye doon there till I speak to this bairn,” said she,
as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bed-chamber, which wore the
same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then
pulling a large bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer,
out of which she took a pair of diamond ear-rings.
“Hae, bairn,” said she, as she stuffed them into Mary’s hand; “they
belanged to your faither’s grandmother. She was a good woman, an’
had four and twenty sons and dochters, an’ I wuss ye nae waur fortin
than just to hae as mony. But mind ye,” shaking her bony finger,
“they maun a’ be Scots. Gin I thocht ye wad marry ony pock-puddin’,
fient hait wad ye gotten frae me. Noo, haud yer tongue, and dinna
deave me wi’ thanks,” almost pushing her into the parlour again;
“and sin’ ye’re gaun awa the morn, I’ll see nae mair o’ ye e’noo—so
fare ye weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an’ tak your breakfast wi’
me. I hae muckle to say to you;—but ye maunna be sae hard upon my
baps as ye used to be,” with a facetious grin to her mollified
favourite, as they shook hands and parted.—“Marriage: a Novel.”
 THE FAITHLESS NURSE:
A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE GREAT
REBELLION.

Most of our readers who are citizens of “our own romantic town,”
are familiarly acquainted with the valley which, winding among the
Pentland Hills, forms the path by which the waters of Glencorse seek
their way to those of the more celebrated Esk. It has long been the
haunt of those “pilgrims of his genius” who loved to see with their
own eyes the sacred scene chosen by the Pastoral Poet of Scotland for
the display of lowly loves and rustic beauty; and it has now—alas the
day!—acquired attractions for spirits of a far different sort; and who
can see without a sigh the triumphs of art domineering over and
insulting the sweetest charms of nature? It is not, however, to visit
the stupendous and unseemly barrier which now chains up the gentle
waters of the burn, nor even to seek the summer-breathing spot
where Patie sung and Roger sighed, that we now request the
attendance of our readers; but simply to point out to their attention a
party of three individuals, who, on a still September evening, in the
memorable year 1644, might have been seen slowly riding up the
glen.
Two of the party were entitled in courtesy to be termed fair; but of
these twain, one would have been acknowledged lovely by the most
uncourteous boor that ever breathed. She had hardly reached the
earliest years of womanhood, ’tis true, and the peachy bloom that
mantled o’er her cheek showed as yet only the dawn of future
loveliness; but her fair brow, on which, contrary to the fashion—we
had almost said taste—of the times, her auburn locks danced
gracefully; the laughing lustre of her dark-blue eye, and the stinging
sweetness of her pouting lip, aided by an expression of indomitable
gentleness of heart and kindliness of manner, lent a witchery to her
countenance which few could gaze upon unmoved.
The other female had thrice the years of Lady Lilias Hay; but they
had not brought her one tithe of that maiden’s beauty, and what little
God had given her, she had, long ere the day we saw her first,
destroyed, by screwing her features into an unvarying cast of prim
solemnity, which, had she practised it, would have blighted the cheek
of Venus herself.
The “squire of dames” who accompanied the pair we have
described was also young, his chin as yet being guiltless of a hair. But
there was a firmness in his look, a dark something in his eye, that
bespoke his courage superior to his years; and a scar that trenched
his open brow showed that he had arrived at the daring, if not the
wisdom of manhood.
On the present occasion, however, it was not a feeling of
recklessness which characterised the demeanour of the youth. He
was thoughtful and abstracted, riding silently by the side of the
maiden, who more than once attempted to dispel the gloom which
hung over the gallant. It gave way, indeed, to the influence of her
gentle voice; but it was for a moment only, and the downcast eye and
contracted brow ever and anon returned when the accents of her
voice had ceased.
“Nay, prithee, cousin Maurice, do doff the visor of thy melancholy,
and let us behold thy merry heart unmasked. I could stake my little
jennet here to Elspeth’s favourite “baudrons,” that if Montrose
should meet thee in this moody temperament, he will rather promote
thee to a halter as a spy from the Committee of Estates, than to
honourable command befitting one who has bled beneath the eye,
and been knighted by the honour-giving hand of his royal master! Do
laugh with me a little.”
“Why, my dearest Lilias, you seem in higher spirits to-day than is
usual with you. Cannot the surety of our parting to-morrow, and the
uncertainty of our ever meeting again, throw even a passing cloud
over your gaiety?”
“Modestly put, my valiant cousin. I am well reminded of my
unbecoming conduct. It must, of course, be night with me when you,
bright sun of my happiness, shall have withdrawn your beams from
me.”
“Nay, banter me not, sweet Lily. Have you never known an hour
when the sweetest sights were irksome to the eye, and the softest
strains of music fell harshly on the ear?”
“Pshaw! if you will neither smile nor talk, of what use are you by a
lady’s side? What say you to a race? Yonder stands the kirk of Saint
Catherine. Will you try your roan that length? An you ride not so fast
now as you did from Cromwell at Longmarston Moor, I shall beat
you. Via!”
And so saying, the light-hearted girl gave rein to her snowy palfrey,
and flew up the glen toward the edifice she had mentioned, at a
speed which Maurice Ogilvy had some difficulty in equalling, and
which prevented him from overtaking her until she had reached the
gate.
All who have visited—and who has not?—Roslin’s “proud
chapelle,” are familiar with the legend of Sir William St Clair, and his
venturous boast to the Bruce, that he would find, on peril of his head,
a dog that would bring down the deer ere it could cross Glencorse
burn;—how the trusty hound did redeem his own credit and his
master’s life, by seizing the quarry in the very middle of the stream;—
and how, in gratitude to the gentle saint by whose intercession this
mighty feat was accomplished, he built a church on the bank of the
stream, and dedicated it to Saint Catherine of the Howe. This virgin
martyr was unfortunately no more successful than her sister saints in
protecting her mansions from the desolating zeal of the earlier
reformers. The church was destroyed by a fanatical mob, and nothing
now remains to record the kindness of Catherine, and the gratitude
of the “high Saint Clair,” but a few uneven grassy heaps of deeper
green than the surrounding verdure, and the name of the
neighbouring farm town, which is yet called Kirkton. At the time we
are at present writing of, however, the roofless walls of the building,
though gray with the ruin of a hundred years, were still almost
entire, and the cemetery then and long after continued to be used by
the neighbouring peasantry.
When Maurice reached the church, he found that the Lady Lilias
had dismounted. He too alighted, and sought her in the interior. She
was seated on a fallen stone, and the deep melancholy which now
shadowed her fair countenance was more in unison with the sombre
aspect of the place and of the hour, than he had expected to find it.
She arose at his approach, and addressed him.
“You have something to tell me, Maurice, and you wished to do it
alone. We have now an opportunity. What has befallen us?”
“Nay, fair Lily, why should you think so? Is not the thought that to-
morrow we must part of itself sufficient to dull my spirit and sadden
my countenance?”
“Pshaw! trifle not with me now. Your face has no secrets for one
who has conned its ill-favoured features so frequently as I have done.
Out with your secret! Elspeth will be with us forthwith.”
Maurice seemed for some moments undecided how he should act,
but at length, with a look of no little embarrassment, replied,—
“Sweet Lilias, you shall be obeyed. You can only laugh at me; and
thanks to your merry heart, that is a daily pastime of yours.”
“Nay, nay—say on; I will be as grave as Argyle.”
“Know then, that while I waited for you and Elspeth at the bottom
of the glen, a remarkable thing befell me. I had alighted, and while
Rupert was trying to pick a scanty meal among the bent, I flung
myself on the ground, and endeavoured to beguile the time by
thinking sometimes of you, and sometimes of King Charles.”
“How! sir cousin, I am not always the companion of your reveries,
it seems, then? Heigho! to think what a change a single day’s
matrimony has accomplished!”
“Ungenerous Lilias,” said Maurice, taking her hand, “listen to me.
Lifting my head accidentally, I was surprised to perceive a man and
woman walking away at some distance from me. The more
attentively I looked at these individuals, the more uneasy I became,
until my terror was completed by the figures slowly turning round
and presenting to me the identical features of you, dear Lilias, and
myself.”
“Maurice, Maurice! you amaze me!”
“Though fully aware of the unearthly nature of these appearances,
I could not resist the desire I felt of following them. I did so, tracing
their silent steps up the glen, until I saw them enter the churchyard
without. I hastened after, but when I too entered the cemetery, the
figures had disappeared!”
The lady’s cheek grew pale as she listened to this narration, for in
those days the belief in such prognostications was universal; and the
time of day when Maurice had seen the wraiths, their retiring
motion, and the fatal spot to which he had traced them, were all
indicative of fast approaching doom. She clung around her husband’s
neck for a few moments in silence, until the deep-seated conviction
of safety while with him, which forms so striking a characteristic of
feminine affection, revived her spirits; and though the tear still hung
on her silken eyelash as she looked up in his face, there was a languid
smile on her cheek as she said,—
“Beshrew you, Maurice, for frightening me so deeply on my
wedding-day! Could you find no other time than this to see bogles?”
“Well said, love,” answered Maurice, who felt no little alarm at
seeing the effect which his story had produced on his wife: “’twas
doubtless a mere delusion.”
“Even should it prove true,” replied Lilias, “we shall at least die
together; and there is a tranquillising influence in that thought,
Maurice, which would go far to make even death agreeable.”
“Let us leave this place,” said Maurice, after the emotion which so
bewitching a confusion excited had in some measure subsided; “I
fear Elspeth will miss us.”
“What then?”
“You know that I have ever distrusted that woman. She and I are
as different from each other as day from darkness. She is a staunch
Covenanter—I a graceless Cavalier. She rails at love-locks, love-
songs, and love-passages—I adore them all. She prays for
MacCallummore, and would fain see his bonnet nod above the crown
of King Charles, and the caps of his merry men;—I would rather see
his head frowning on the Netherbow Port. While she opposed my
suit to you, I only hated her; now that she connives at it—shall I
confess it to you?—I fear her.”
“Nay, now you are unjust. While in the lawful exercise of woman’s
just prerogative,—coquetry,—I seemed to balance the contending
claims of Sir Mungo Campbell and yourself for this poor hand,
Elspeth doubtlessly favoured the cause of her kinsman (all
Campbell’s being of course cousins); but our sovereign will once
unequivocally declared, she became all submission, and has not even
attempted to impugn the decision which we, somewhat foolishly
perhaps, have pronounced in your favour. Besides, Maurice,”
continued Lilias, leaving off the mock-heroic tone in which she had
hitherto spoken for one more akin to natural feeling, “Elspeth
Campbell was my nurse, has a mother’s affection for me, and
therefore would not, I am confident, engage in any scheme inimical
to my happiness.”
“Still she is a Covenanter, and a Campbell,” replied Maurice, “and
as such, her dearest wish, even for your own sake, must be to see you
the wife of him who is both the one and the other.”
“Well,” rejoined Lilias, colouring highly as she spoke, “that at least
you have put out of her power: and yet I regret that I trusted her not
in that matter. It was a secret for a woman, and a nursing mother.”
“Fear not, she shall know in time. I know, I feel it is unmanly, the
dread I entertain; but I cannot quell it. I wish we had not agreed to
make this Logan House the trysting-place of my gallant friends: my
father’s dwelling had been the safer place.”
“Yes; and so have set my worthy guardian, Gillespie Grumach, and
his obsequious friend Sir Mungo, on our track. Come, come, your
alarm is unbecoming. At dawn we leave Logan House. The madcap
disguise which you have prevailed on me to adopt will prevent any
recognition till you have consigned me to my noble kinswoman of
Huntly; and you—but I wrong you—fear not for yourself.”
“Kindly spoken, my love,—would to Heaven you indeed were in
Strathbogie, and I among the gallant Grahams! But here comes
Elspeth, looking as demure as if she were afraid that the idolatrous
sacrifice of the mass, like the leprosy of old, might still stick to those
time-worn walls, and infect her godly heart. Let us go.”
Lilias looked earnestly on the countenance of her nurse as they
met; for though she had not acknowledged so much to Maurice, her
heart had misgiven her as she listened to his discourse. Whether it
might proceed from the melancholy truth, that suspicion once
excited against an individual cannot be entirely quieted by any
innocence whatever, or whether the countenance of Elspeth really
afforded ground for the doubt of her mistress, we are unable to
determine, but certainly the latter imagined at least that she could
detect alarm, solicitude, and fear, lurking amid the apparent
placidity of her nurse’s features.
Nothing was said, however; and the party, remounting their
horses, shortly afterwards arrived at their destination for the night,
namely, the Peel or Tower of Logan House. This edifice, which
crowns the summit of a small knoll or brae on the northern side of
Glencorse water, was one of the many places built for the safety of
the population against any sudden but short-lived attack, and, from
the walls, which are still left, must have been of considerable
strength. It was, at the time we speak of, entire, and consisted of two
storeys; the lower being devoted to the accommodation of the
servants of the house, and that of the family bestial, while the upper
was divided into the few apartments then thought sufficient for the
accommodation of the gentles.
As they rode into the courtyard, Maurice was struck by the want of
attendance which the place betrayed. At that day the laudable
customs of the “queen’s old courtier” had not entirely gone into
desuetude, and every holding, however small, was filled with a
number of retainers, that in the present day would be deemed
excessive. At Logan House, however, things were very different. A
stripling—half-man, half-boy—seemed the only representative of
male vassalage, and the woman-servants, though more numerous,
did not amount to anything near the average number which in those
days divided amongst themselves, with commendable chariness, the
duties of a household.
The faggots, however, blazed cheerfully in the upper apartment,
and food and wine having been prepared in abundance, Maurice for
a moment forgot his suspicions, and Lilias regained her
sprightliness. They conversed gaily together of days gone by, and of
courts and masques and pageants which they had seen, to the
evident discomfort of Elspeth, who not only thought her presence
becoming in her character of nurse, but somewhat necessary in the
existing condition, as she imagined, of the youthful pair. Maurice
soon saw her uneasiness, and wickedly resolved to make it a means
of pastime to himself and Lilias.
“Do you recollect, sweet Lily, when the good King Charles kissed
your cheek in Holyroodhouse, and vowed, on a king’s word, to find a
husband for you?”
“I do; and how a malapert page sounded in my ear that he would
save his Majesty the trouble.”
“And have I not kept my word—ha, lady mine? The great Argyle
and all his men will hardly, I think, undo the links that bind us to
each other;” and inspired, as it seemed, by the pleasant thought, the
youth took the lady’s hand in his, and pressed it warmly and
frequently to his lips.
Elspeth looked on in amazement at the familiarity of intercourse in
which the lady indulged her cousin, and which was equally
repugnant to her natural and acquired feelings on the subject.
“Pshaw! you foolish man, desist!” cried Lilias, blushing and
laughing at the same time, when Maurice attempted to substitute her
rosy lips for the hand he had been so fervently kissing. “What will
Elspeth think?”
“Think, Lady Lilias!” said Elspeth bitterly; “think! I cannot think;
but I can feel for the impropriety—the sinful levity—into which, for
the first time, I see my mistress fallen.”
The fair neck of Lilias crimsoned as she listened to the taunt. For a
moment a frown gathered on her brow, before which the nurse’s
countenance fell; but it died away in a moment, and, with a
beseeching smile, which lay nestled among rosy blushes, she
stretched out her hand and said,—
“Forgive me, Elspeth, we are married!”
This brief annunciation had a striking effect on the individual to
whom it was addressed. She clasped together her withered hands,
and continued for a few moments gazing wildly in the faces of the
startled pair, seemingly anxious to discover there some contradiction
of what she had just heard; and then uttering a loud long shriek,
dashed her face against the wooden board, and groaned audibly.
The terrified Lilias tried to raise the old woman’s head from the
table, but she for some time resisted the kindly effort. At length,
raising her pale and now haggard features to those of the lady, she
exclaimed,—
“Unsay, child of my affection, the dreadful tidings you have told;—
tell me not that I have murdered the daughter of my mistress. Often
when the taish was on me have I seen the dirk in your bosom. Little